Dispatches from the Island of Misfit Toys

For those who don’t get the reference, it’s from Star Trek. A “dunsel” is a part which serves no useful purpose.

As I near the end of my interminable, self-imposed exile in the wilds of Alabama, I’ve been reflecting on my life. Being on the wrong side of forty, this tends to happen more often than it should. Contemplating the accumulated consequence of my life’s work to date, the words “insignificant,” “trivial,” and “irrelevant” come to mind.

As a filmmaker, my career consists of bad, unfinished, or embarrassing mainstream films, and a laundry list of inconsequential porn films. My career as an actor stalled years ago. As a writer, well… I write a lot of porn scripts. Case closed.

As a person, I’m not doing much better. I recently had another girl I was banging (that’s five in two years for those of you playing the home game) decide to stop seeing me because she was falling for me. In this particular girl’s case, I would never have dated her. But the two previous girls who made this same decision were absolutely girls I would date, so it isn’t a commitment issue, at least on my part. Apparently, the consensus is I’m just unworthy of affection. It’s like a scarlet letter, but in reverse.

That might be the worst analogy ever coined in the English language. But you take my point.

To make matters worse, lately I’ve been a truly miserable fuck. Yes, I’m always bitter and angry, but this has been bad. I’ve been avoiding contact with my friends as much as possible because I don’t want to inflict myself on them. Alice has made a creditable attempt at reaching out, but I know I’ve been driving her insane. And Mischief, if she understood me better, would do anything to make me happy, but I would never let her because she’s supposed to be gaining distance from me.

Until very recently I was actually formulating a plan to simply vanish when the Alabama job was finished, starting a new life under a new name (don’t ask how… I have my ways) and beginning again. Except for cats, and several girls who don’t want to fuck me lest they catch a bad case of the Bryn, there is very little tying me to L.A.

I think the idea sprouted out of the hurt stemming from this (seemingly) constant rejection of me as both a worthy companion (whether I want to be or not), and the more recent, implicit, rejection of my worth on a professional level. I got replaced as the DP on two porn gigs a few weeks ago, and not only did the shoots go smoothly, several people were genuinely relieved to be rid of me.

Given my current mindset, it was an easy leap to make from there to just removing myself from the entire equation, because the fact is, I really wouldn’t be missed. Not for long. I’m not being melodramatic, I’m being logical. People adapt, and move on.

K has her own life and a budding career as an artist. Hollywood, like me, is a pragmatist, and after some initial angst, would conclude it was my decision to make. Alice would feel obligated to miss me, but it would pass pretty quickly (I’d like to think her feelings wouldn’t become actual relief, but it’s possible). Red recently told me to go fuck myself. Blue and D and the rest would mentally shrug and get on with life, as would my old friends and exes. Mischief would be more crushed by my disappearance than anyone, but frankly, my absence would be the best thing for her.

But I can’t. As tantalizing as the notion of running away from home is, I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s cowardly. It also wouldn’t solve anything; as I said to Alice, my biggest problem is myself, and I’d just be schlepping that around with me.

So, instead, I’m going to not give up.

Here’s the new plan: Unpack in my “new” apartment and make a fucking life there. Focus on the steampunk short, Cowboys & Engines, I’m going to be doing at the end of the summer with CM50 (a moviemaking colleague) producing, which is something I’m really excited about. I’ve got lines on getting both The Blood of Virgins and Director’s Cut off the ground that I’m going to pursue. I’m hoping iKllr, the micro-budget horror film I shot last November, will open some mainstream doors. I’m going to start submitting to auditions again. And I’m going to re-establish myself as a porn director, because that chapter of my life has been pretty good to me, and I need to begin respecting it.

In short, I’m going to try… try… to be happy. It’s not my best talent, but I’m gonna have a lash at it anyway.

And maybe, along the way, I’ll find some filthy little hooker who likes dirty old men. And maybe she’ll want to hang around for a while.

Just a thought.

To Captain Dunsel.

While I have an ample supply of bruises, cuts, scrapes, burns, etc., to show for my week-and-a-half on set in Alabama, the title actually refers to my ego. Since K left me, about this time two years ago, it’s taken a few major kidney punches. My psyche is pissing blood.

Some is from women; girls I wanted who didn’t want me, or for whom I’m fine as a fuck buddy, but not relationship material (not that I’m looking, but desire is always welcome). I was told a couple weeks ago that “I’m nothing but a bad habit that’s really easy to break.” I think I might get that tattooed on my face.

Professionally, being trapped out here in Possum Fuck has really magnified the sense that the world back home moves on without wanting or needing me. Terminator went off without a hitch at Hustler, largely because nobody involved gave a fuck.

Also, on that set, several people I consider friends had a grand old time sitting around mocking me for a good long while. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t butt hurt to discover I’m nothing but a punchline to people I have a lot of respect for — and whom I thought respected me.

Now, after the plan being to push the last two days of Dark Knight XXX so I could shoot them (I shot the first two before coming to Alabama), it’s simply too much trouble and the shoot will go on as scheduled. This is particularly disappointing because I think that’s going to be a great movie, and I’d really like to finish what I started, whether my co-workers like it or not.

Instead, here I am, working a grunt job for grunt pay and bitching about it on my blog. How emo.

I feel a million miles away from everything I care about.

It’s  4 a.m. and I just got home about 20 minutes ago. I left for work at 8:45 this morning. This is all in the nature of the business I’m in. In fact, it isn’t even unusual.

I started the day shooting camera on two scenes for Ben. The first was a young girl who’d done very few scenes who was sweet, but as boring as boring can be. The second girl was doing her first scene ever and, really, performed like a champ.

Afterwards, I went to shoot on Punk Rock Schoolgirls for Joanna Angel and James Deen. Joanna writes rally cute, funny scripts for her movies, but sometimes they’re a bit… overambitious. As the oldest warhorse on the set (I’ve got five years on the next oldest person, and 11 years more experience in porn), I had the unenviable task of pulling James & Joanna aside and suggesting that they weren’t going to make their day.

In the past, Joanna has always gotten lucky and pulled off the impossible. This time it just wasn’t going to happen. So, the plug got pulled with one incredibly intricate dialogue scene to be picked up at some later date.

For all that the populace at large things porn is an enormous fuck-off job, I often think there are no harder working people in the world than porn shooters.

Tomorrow I’m going to run errands and spend the evening with Mischief and some of her friends. It’s good because I’ve been feeling incredibly anti-social lately, I think as a reaction to being so overwhelmed by work and debt (strange combination). She forces me to get out in the world.

For my birthday she took me to a big cat preserve, ironically located right next door to the Tropic Desert Mine where we shot The 8^th Day, so I was already aware of the place. It was a great day out, spent mostly in the company of animals (whom I largely prefer to people).

Rape of the Aboriginal Americans day and most of this coming weekend will be spent at the computer, working. Indulging my misanthropic nature.

My fingers are stiff from too many long days in a row, so for now let me just say eat some dead turkey in honor of a dead Indian and enjoy your Thanksgiving.

Well, hello there! I was walking by and saw this blog sitting here abandoned and adrift like the Mary Celeste and decided to come aboard.

Yeah, it’s been a crazy few weeks. I’m gonna keep this short, because, well, I’ve still got shit to do, but I’ll try to check back a little more often.

Been doing a lot of editing. Finished Kiss of the Strangler, which is a new feature (what?! NOT a parody?!  Do they still make those?) for Hot Video. I’m really happy with it. If you’re curious, you can watch their very own on-the-set report here: http://www.hotvideo.fr/usa.php

I don’t come off looking too ridiculous.

I also spent a few weeks under the gun editing Joanna’s Angels 3 for BurningAngel. It’s their big movie for the year, and even though I was the DP on the movie, I forgot what an epic it is until I was faced with trying to finish it in the space of 10 days. That deadline almost killed me when it raced past.

Still, the movie got finished, and I’m quite proud. It’s hysterical.

I’ve got other shenanigans in the works, including the possibility that I’ll be a producer of a multi-million-dollar mainstream film. But those details will have to wait. Until, y’know, they might be a real thing that’s not going to be cursed out of existence by its mere mention aloud. Like love or faeries or justice.

I’m currently sitting at the entrance to an enormous furniture warehouse filled with stuff I couldn’t even begin to afford. At the far end, Ben is taking stills of Monique Alexander on a $4,600 sofa, which she’s going to get fucked on for Naughty America. Everyone is taking a beating in this economy, and the owners of this high-dollar store are happy to get a few extra hundred for giving us the location.

I was going to post an in-depth review of Inception, which is, without doubt, one of the most spectacular and original movies I’ve seen in my lifetime. I would fuck that movie if I could. But I’m far too distracted by the knot in my gut.

Instead, I’m writing as therapy, trying to relieve the mounting stress of an increasingly ridiculous life. As I take on more and more work, consistently making less for doing more, watching the bills pile up as the income dwindles, I wonder when I will finally crack. I’m not being melodramatic. This isn’t a growing panic but rather an idle concern, like guilt over not going to the dentist.

I’m trying to pay attention to the band playing Nearer My God to Thee as I rearrange the deck chairs.

Last week I worked four of the hardest days I can remember for Burning Angel, shooting and gaffing Joanna’s Angels 3 for Joanna and James Deen. 2 16-hour days, an 18-hour day and a 20-hour day, and practically every minute of it, I was on my feet and running around. I didn’t just feel old when we wrapped, I felt ancient.

To make matters worse, I’ve agreed to edit the movie. This wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that I haven’t finished cutting Kiss of the Strangler, which is turning out great, but taking far too long. Hot Video have been very understanding about it, but for how long? JA3 has a rigid due date in a little over 2 weeks, so it’s going to demand every moment I can devote to it.

Except that I’m going to Florida for four days to shoot Tristan Taormino’s documentary right in the middle of that 2 weeks.

Oh, and I still have to work my NA job, just to keep body and soul together.

Okay, instead of relieving my stress, putting this in black-and-white has sharpened it to a keen edge. Bad idea.

I’m fucked.

Well, as the saying goes, when the going gets tough, the tough go fishing, so I’m having a last gasp attempt at recreation this weekend. Tomorrow, Mischief & I are going up the coast to see a band she loves in Santa Barbara, staying overnight, and then banging around the coast until Sunday evening. We planned this over a month ago. If I had any sense I would have canceled. As it is, I’ll be curious to see if I can even pretend to relax.

Afterwards, I’m essentially going to have to tell her – and everyone else in my life – to forget that I exist for a few weeks and try to dig myself out of the hole I’m in.

Either that, or pull it in after me.

I think my body just told me to get off of its lawn.

As I mentioned, James Deen and Joanna Angel hired me to light and shoot their June feature, Doppelgänger (last I heard), a horror comedy in which Joanna’s fantastically un-lifelke blow-up doll comes to life and tries to kill her. It would be completely incorrect to say they shoot features like I do. Their approach is very different, but their passion and commitment are the same, a rare occurrence in porn, so I was happy to give it my all.

Any time you’re trying to make something good with the tiny amount of money the business affords to features, it means long, hard shoot days. It’s one of the reasons so few mainstream people can truly hack it in porn. This business is broke, and having a work ethic that means you start phoning it in at hour 13 unless someone is offering overtime just doesn’t cut it. Anyone in the business who does features will tell you that looking at the wrong side of an 18-hour day just ain’t that uncommon.

After we wrapped late last night, J&J bought us all dinner which was a great gesture. They really are good people, and I like them both a lot. We’re talking about how to make their July movie possible on the budget they have. I’m prefectly happy to take that ride with them again next month.

My body had other ideas, though. On Thursday, I shot Naughty America with Ben all day. Thursday night, Mischief & I went on an actual “date” in Hollywood; cruised Amoeba; saw Micmacs (I have a love/lethargy relationshipwith Jeunet — this one I loved); had Thai food; hit Borders; fucked like beasts. Really nice.

Friday was a 16-hour day for Burning Angel, and even though the Goth Biscuit was planning on sleeping at her place, we both decided is was a “wiser” idea for her to sleep at the Shelter so I could wake her up briefly when I got home. Yesterday was another long day of shooting, planning and humping gear. When I’m tired during a shoot, I tend to apply Newton’s laws of motion to myself: An object in motion tends to remain in motion, an object at rest tends to remain at rest.  I think during all of the production on Friday & Saturday I sat down maybe four times.

I walked in the door at around 1:30 a.m., talked to the Ex-Box, the Souvenir and the Photographer in the Attic who were all buzzing over some industry gossip in the kitchen, and then went upstairs. I sat down on the edge of the futon in my office to make some notes annnnnnd…

Yeah. Woke up five hours later, still in my clothes, a ferocious kink in my neck. Needless to say, Uncle Joe is movin’ mighty slow in the Junction today. I’m doing some organizing, maybe some editing, and then going to Allison’s place in Long Beach for the evening, where I will hopefully not be required to move anything heavy or blister my fingers. We’re still finding our way through the minefield of her past relationships, but it’s good. We click.

Tomorrow, I’m chained to the desk again, trying to make headway up the river of Kiss of the Strangler and possibly pulling an all-nighter if I can hack it. Hanging out with all these kids is great until you become an object at rest.

I have a girl sleeping in my bed.

Wait, I’m beginning at the end. Let me back up.

Thursday night, Mischief & I went to a gallery show at a club space downtown that featured art, photography, fashion. We were invited by my friend Ben Hoffman (The Photographer in the Attic) who truly is an Artist.

He is one of the more astonishing photographers I’ve ever seen. He’s currently living an art project of his own devising called Project One. The mission is to create one piece of real art every day for a year.

I’d strongly encourage you to check out his site HERE.

The show itself, with the exception of Ben’s work, was a sardonic joke. A hipster facsimile of style, taste and genuine skill. An accidental postmodern sendup of the L.A. art scene. If you could make an ironic T-shirt out of an art show and sell it at Brite Spot, this would be that shirt.

Friday night was supposed to be a solo dinner with my friends John & Brusta to catch up and discuss John’s current screenplay. With a warning that I was afraid she might be bored or feel left out when we came to the script notes, I invited the Girl to come along, and she accepted.

I needn’t have worried. John can be a lot to keep up with, and the two of us together have a hurricane-like effect, blowing over everything not oak tree-strong in the room. Mischief kept up just fine. She related the story of her ex, who had been posting shitty comments on her blog under various guises throughout the day.

When we got to the script discussions hours later, she curled up against the wall, draped a leg over me, and was perfectly happy just to be there, alone in her thoughts, but together as a unit.

Saturday, we took the Metro in to Olvera St. and wandered it thoroughly. Museums. Craft & Crap stores. A great lunch. Some illicit behavior on a hidden balcony overlooking downtown. A great afternoon.

We went home so I could load up for the Burning Angel shoot that I’ve been DPing/Gaffing. When the loadout was finally finished, we showered and I went with Mischief to one of her clubs so I could see her dance.

I’ve always liked going to clubs. I resolutely Do Not Dance. But. The people-watching is always first rate as humans are never more entertaining than when they are On Display for the benefit/antagonism/seduction of others. Peacocks preening and dancing for the other birds in the muster.

Because I cannot go anywhere in this town without bumping into someone I know, we found a hysterically tipsy Aiden Starr at the club. Talking to drunken blond munchkin women with perfect bodies makes me happy.

And then, when the drought of songs she liked finally broke, I got to see Allison dance. It was one of the more erotic experiences of my life.

It wasn’t just the intimate knowledge of being inside that gyrating body… because on that weekend, we finally fucked after weeks of abstinence for a variety of reasons.

The way she moves, the way she melds herself to each song as if it were a lover, the combination of steps and gestures built around a kind of subconscious “here I am/you can’t have me” dynamic… it made me hungry.

Sadly, I had to cut out early. I needed to get a few hours’ sleep before my call in Woodland Hills.

The Burning Angel shoot was grueling, especially on top of four hours’ sleep, but I’ve certainly done worse. Plus, James & Joanna are such great people that you just want to pull it off for them, so we all really tried to hustle.

The movie is about Joanna confronting her possessed blow-up doll from Topco, and it’s going to be really cute. Goth Biscuit & I texted each other back and forth all day like teenagers. Revolting.

Monday, the shoot continued at a loft downtown, and when we ran over and got gently bumped from our location, I offered up my place for the final sex scene. We did the company move, and Mischief got to watch the sex scene being shot, which she’d been curious about, and everyone got to meet her, which they’d been curious about.

The next oldest person on set was 13 years younger than me. When that realization hits you, especially when you’ve been up for 42 hours straight and are sleeping with a 26-year-old, it verges well into the realm of the surreal.

It is a strange, strange life, this thing I’m living.

So, I have a girl sleeping in my bed.

When I finish the things I have to do, that life and work and keeping body and soul together demand of me in the never-ending stretch of never-ending hours that seem to comprise a single, never-ending workday, I’ll slide in next to her. She’ll move to my side and curl up on top of me, like a cat, sleeping on my chest. Out cold. Safe.

We’ve known each other for less than a month – can that be right? – and since she showed up on my doorstep needing a shoulder, we’ve seen each other every day, save one.

And it feels right. It’s effortless and natural. We’re pretty confident we can work out the monogamy issue, and I’m not going to let myself be concerned about the age difference. I figure as long as we can joke about it, it’s not too creepy.

What I’m not going to do is get overwrought, or spend too much time analyzing, trying to convince myself that my own worthiness of a happy existence is constantly in doubt – the way I do – and so anything that contributes to happiness must be suspect. I’m not going to stress about how Allison will react when she finally hits the shoals of the various broken pieces of my psyche. I’m not going to presage doom.

The way I do.

Nope.

Instead, I’m going to go to bed and I’m going to let that smart, sexy, dynamic, dirty girl who seems to think the world of me curl up on my chest and sleep as my fingers trace the edges of the magnificent tattoo down her right ribcage while I drift.

And I’m not going to worry about it.

Unlike Woody Allen in What’s Up, Tiger Lily?, death and danger are not my various breads and various butters. I primarily spend work days shooting camera for Hank Hoffman when he directs for Naughty America.

Today we’re shooting the very sweet, nubile, elongated 21-year-old Phoenix Askani, who I’m pre-disposed to like since her stage name is an intentional amalgamation of X-Men characters.

Phoenix is pretty new. Today, she’s also bleeding. This is very common in porn, and most girls quickly learn the proper application of makeup sponges to get through the scene.

Phoenix has never done this.

I’ve been in porn for two decades, so when I volunteered to get the sponge in the right place — and fish it out afterwards (most girls can’t reach them once they’re tucked up in, so I’ve done this often) — she was relieved.

So, in a passing way, I got to become acquainted with Phoenix’s tiny pussy before the scene.

It’s an odd business, this.